


Entertainment for the Discerning Consultant Detective

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: When a pandemic crossing the world leads to enforced quarantines, John finds ways to keep Sherlock home without both of them losing their minds.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 41
Kudos: 244
Collections: Chelle's Fic Recommendations, Isolated Johnlock Collection





	Entertainment for the Discerning Consultant Detective

The news had been growing more concerning every day, but John wasn’t particularly worried yet. The clinic he worked at had started discussing protocols and ordering surplus supplies. So far, it all seemed practical and he agreed with what was being done. 

What was far more concerning was the possibility of quarantine. Not for John, of course. He would be perfectly content to stay at home and read and work on his blog. 

No. What concerned him was a certain consulting detective and his propensity for destruction when faced with the dreaded “b” word. What on earth would John do when Sherlock started shooting the walls because he was bored? 

He needed to do something. He needed a plan, and then a backup plan, and then a backup to the backup plan. So, John did what parents all over the world were doing. He went to his laptop, typed into the address bar, and pulled up Pinterest on ideas to keep busy at home.

*

“You want what?”

“Anything you can give me.”

“What on earth for, John?”

John sighed as he rubbed his hand down his face. “You’ve seen the news. I’m pretty sure we’re heading towards a quarantine situation.”

“But why do you need parts?” Molly asked as she continued to eye him bemusedly. 

“I need things to keep Sherlock occupied. I was hoping that if I have whatever you can give me I can keep him inside.”

“Why does he need to stay inside? He would likely still be working, don’t you think?”

“I would much rather he stay in if I can help it.”

“Why? As long as he makes sure to take proper precautions he should be fine. He’s very...clean. I mean, he always washes his hands and he smells nice,” Molly snapped her mouth shut as if she just realized what she said and to who. John decided to ignore it. He was well aware of how nice Sherlock smelled, and couldn’t exactly fault her for pointing it out.

“Molly, do you have any idea how often Sherlock touches his face? Constantly. His hands are constantly on his face. And then he touches my face,” John said, then snapped his own mouth shut. “Not like that, I just mean, he’s a very physical…” he began, then stopped again. “This isn’t coming out right,” he stated simply as he ignored the flush that he felt on his cheeks.

Molly eyed him, and did the courtesy of ignoring his gaff as he had ignored hers. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she finally said, and John smiled.

“Thank you, Molly. I owe you one,” he promised, and Molly waved his thanks away as she turned back to her work. John made his way out of the hospital and off to his next destination. 

*

“Thanks again, Mrs. Hudson,” John said as he put down his most recent bags of provisions. He had been by several times already to stock up what he could. Beans, boxes of tea, sugar, bread, and so on. Milk. Lots of milk. She had more room, and he made sure to buy enough for 3 people since she allowed him to store things there. 

“Oh, it’s no problem, dear. I know you two don’t have any room up there,” she said as she pulled biscuits from the oven. “Get anything good today?”

“Yes, actually. I got some new board games and books. I found a great book on apiary techniques from the 18th century.”

“He’ll like that one,” she approved as she settled a plate of the fresh biscuits on the table beside a pot of tea. “Come sit, sit. Have some tea with me.”

John smiled and sat down at the table across from his landlady. She poured them both mugs before he had a chance to pour for them, and he thanked her before he drank his tea and picked a biscuit. 

*

Sherlock was sprawled across the couch when John got home from his shift. His hands were pressed together under his chin, but John noticed how they weren't actually touching his face. For once. 

John shrugged off his coat and turned to hang it by the door. He toed off his shoes and turned back to make his way into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and nearly stepped right into Sherlock who had apparently unglued himself from the couch and decided that standing right behind John was a good place to be. 

“Jesus, Sherlock! Don’t just sneak up on me like that,” he half-shouted before forcing himself to lower his voice. “You scared me.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment before he stepped back and allowed John to walk past him into the kitchen. 

“Is there something you wanted?” He called out as he filled fresh water into the kettle. He put it on the base and flicked it on before turning around, and this time he wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock right behind him again. John noticed the quick quirk of Sherlock’s lips as if in acknowledgement of John’s lack of surprise.

“John, I don’t know why you’re insisting I stay inside. I’m perfectly capable of taking the necessary precautions,” he stated. 

“It’s been one day, Sherlock. You can stay inside without complaining for 24 hours, I think.” 

Sherlock arched his brow at that, and John couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. He shook his head. “Never mind. I suppose you couldn’t do it without complaint.”

“Well I could, but where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock asked, and John gave another huff of laughter. Behind him, the kettle clicked itself off as the water boiled within. He turned and set about the task of making tea for them both. 

“So what did you do all day?”

“I was thinking.”

“About?”

“About how often I touch my face.”

“And?”

Sherlock went silent as John turned to hand him his prepared tea. They both took a careful sip before Sherlock spoke again.

“Did you know the average person touches their face about 16 times an hour?”

“Interesting. Of course, you’re not average, are you? How many times do you touch your face in an hour?”

“Zero times an hour today,” he replied haughtily. 

“Hm, yes. And yesterday?” John asked as he took another sip of his tea and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

“About 30 times an hour,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath, and John smiled at the petulant expression on his face.

John finished his tea and set the empty mug in the sink. “I’m going to take a shower and then make dinner.”

“No need. Mrs. Hudson brought up a casserole earlier,” Sherlock said as he left the kitchen with his still full mug and headed back to the couch. 

“Oh, well that was nice of her. Do you want to watch a movie after dinner?”

“If you insist.”

“You can pick,” John said as he climbed up the stairs to get his pajamas to change into after his shower. One day down. At least 13 more to go.

*

“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock’s baritone rumbled by John’s shoulder.

“I don’t make up the rules, Sherlock,” John huffed out.

“You need to spin again.”

“You get one spin. You’re just going to have to figure it out.”

Sherlock grunted and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath while John tried his very best not to laugh. 

Suddenly, Sherlock’s warm hand closed over John’s ankle and he yelped loudly as his foot started to slide.

“You can’t grab me, that’s cheating!” He called out as Sherlock kept a hold of his ankle and twisted his body.

“I’m not trying to make you fall, I’m just trying to get to Right Hand Blue,” Sherlock snarked as he finally finished turning his body, released John’s ankle, and reached an arm between John’s legs for the empty blue circle. 

“That’s still cheating,” John grumbled, but he let it pass as he pulled the spinner closer to flick the little plastic piece that held his fate in its nonexistent hand.

“Left foot green,” he called out, then looked around him to try and figure out the best way to actually get there with Sherlock’s arm between his legs. 

“Ok, hold still,” he said as he picked up his left leg and tried to snake around Sherlock’s outstretched arm for the closest available green circle. He twisted his hips and bumped into Sherlock’s shoulder, who grunted but held his position. Finally, he was able to place his foot down. “Ah ha!” he crowed out in triumph. “Alright, your go.”

Sherlock pulled the spinner of doom closer to him and managed a lazy flick with his long fingers. “Right hand green. Why does my right hand have to keep moving?” he complained as he shifted his body again and managed to get his hand on the circle beside John’s foot. 

It really wasn’t fair. Sherlock had a clear advantage to this game with his long arms and legs. He was basically a contortionist. 

Unfortunately this newest position put Sherlock’s head right beside John’s, and he was getting a face full of dark curls and some kind of honey scented styling cream. He couldn’t help the semi-unconscious impulse to lean in and breathe in the scent again, but Sherlock turned his head and caused the curls to tickle John’s nose. 

“Sherlock, stop moving,” he said as he tried to fight off the tickle the curls had caused. 

“I’m not moving. It’s your turn,” he said, as he turned his head again and John tried to shift out of the way. It wasn’t quick enough, and he felt the sneeze coming. He quickly stood and brought his arms up to sneeze into his elbow. This resulted in him knocking Sherlock over as he was in a rather precarious position. Sherlock, in his less than graceful fall, managed to knock John’s knees out from under him and the detective found himself with a lapful of doctor -slash-blogger.

They both groaned in pain as the wind knocked out of them. Then John sneezed into his elbow again. 

“Bless you,” Sherlock said flatly, and John looked up at him. There had been no way to stop the giggle that bubbled out of him, and after a moment Sherlock started to chuckle as well. After a moment of laughter, John became aware of his position again and carefully shifted off of Sherlock’s lap. 

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Fine. I do believe I win, though.”

“I’m pretty sure I win. You fell down first,” John argued playfully.

“Yes, because you jumped up and knocked me down,” Sherlock replied. 

“Fine fine, you win,” John agreed. “This round,” he added.

Sherlock’s brow arched up, and John grinned.

“Round 2?” Sherlock asked, and John scrambled up. 

“You’re on.”

*

When John got home the hallway smelled amazing. He figured Mrs. Hudson must have been cooking until he realized that the lovely smell got stronger as he climbed the stairs to his own flat. When he walked in the warm scent of tikka masala flooded over him in the most delightful of ways. He followed his nose to the kitchen and took in the rare sight of a clean table. It was covered with a tablecloth, though, with two plates and wine glasses set. Sherlock was in front of the stove and turned as John came in. 

“Dinner should be ready after you’ve showered,” he said and turned back around. 

John stood looking at his back for a few moments. Sherlock had made dinner. It smelled amazing. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had cooked of course, he was a grown man and perfectly capable of cooking, but this was different somehow. John couldn’t quite figure out what made it different, but he knew it was. 

Sherlock turned his head to look back at him. 

“Shower,” he said again, and John forced himself to nod and turn to head up the stairs. 

He took a quick shower and threw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a soft jumper. He briefly considered a touch of product in his hair, then shook his head at himself. It’s just dinner in his own flat. Why would he put stuff in his hair? He did give an extra vigorous rub with his towel for his hair and didn’t bother to comb it, though. 

When he made it back to the kitchen he saw that Sherlock had already plated the food, and it all looked as wonderful as it smelled. There was fluffy basmati rice, chicken tikka masala with its rich burnt orange sauce, and what looked like homemade naan. John looked up at Sherlock as he stood behind his chair. Sherlock was pouring a deep red wine into each of their glasses, but he felt John’s eyes on him and met his gaze. 

“Sit. It’s going to get cold if you just stand there staring at me,” he huffed, and John gave a small laugh as he pulled out his chair and sat down. Sherlock put the wine down on the table and sat in his own chair. 

“This looks amazing,” he said as he reached for a piece of naan from the plate in the center of the table. It was soft and warm in his hands, and he tore off a piece. He dunked it in the sauce on his plate and took a bite. His eyes closed as the perfect blend of spice and bread hit his tongue, and if he gave an almost indecent moan in his enjoyment of this culinary masterpiece, well that would just have to be forgiven. “It tastes even better than it smells,” he proclaimed as he opened his eyes and looked at his friend. Sherlock had been staring at him and he looked away and quickly cleared his throat before tearing off a piece of his own naan. John smiled at him before he truly tucked into his meal. 

They ate in silence except for the occasional remark of how good a certain bite was, how the wine was a perfect choice, how the rice was cooked exactly right. It seemed that John always had a compliment to give, and Sherlock accepted each one with a shyness that surprised him. 

“Well, my compliments to the chef,” John toasted Sherlock with his second glass of wine as they finished their meal. “Truly, this was fantastic. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied as he took a sip from his own glass. 

“I didn’t know you could cook anything like that,” John said, and Sherlock gave him a small smirk. 

“Cooking is just chemistry. And it helps when you have a cookbook,” he said as he turned his head to nod at the open cookbook on the counter. “Mrs. Hudson brought it up earlier.”

John nodded, then smiled at his friend. 

“Want to play a game?” 

“Not really. I was thinking about reading that book you bought on apiary practices.”

“Sounds good. I have a new novel to read as well.”

They both stood up, and John refilled each of their glasses to finish off the bottle of wine. 

“I’ll do the cleaning up since you cooked,” he said, and watched as his friend nodded and made his way out of the kitchen. John put away the leftovers before gathering all the dirty dishes and washing them in the sink. When he was finished he dried his hands on the dish towel and made his way to the bookcase with his glass of wine. He grabbed his new book off the shelf and sat down in his chair across from Sherlock, who was already absorbed in his own book. John smiled to himself as he settled in and made himself comfortable. He could get used to quiet evenings like this. 

*

_Bang!_

John jolted up out of bed and was down the stairs before the cloud of pink smoke had managed to escape the kitchen. 

“Damnit, Sherlock, are you okay?” he asked as he ran to the closest window. Sherlock had stumbled out of the kitchen by the time he had wrestled the first window open and went towards the next. 

“Small miscalculation,” Sherlock assured him as the man pulled off his safety goggles. “It’ll dissipate in a moment.”

“It’s not poisonous, is it?” John asked as he wrenched the second window open.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sherlock said. Then, “John, where are your trousers?”

John turned away from the window, suddenly remembering that he was completely naked except for his pants. 

“Well I was asleep before a certain someone decided to try and blow up the flat,” John snarked. 

Sherlock stepped closer to him, eyes narrowed, and John glanced down. Oh, God. 

“Doctor Love?” Sherlock didn’t even bother trying to hide the smirk that tugged at his lips. 

So yes. They were red boxer briefs with pink and white hearts and ‘Doctor Love’ written in various prints all over them. No one ever saw his pants (not recently, anyway), and he liked having a touch of whimsy where he could. He also had socks with otters on them. 

“It’s laundry day,” he replied airly, and turned to go towards another window. 

“Is that a tattoo?” Sherlock suddenly asked, and John quickly turned around and grabbed the blanket hanging off the couch. 

“Nope,” he said as he wrapped the blanket firmly around him. 

“It was definitely a tattoo.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and instead of struggling with a blanket and a window at the same time, he quickly headed up the stairs to get dressed for the day. 

*

“Bored.”

“Go read something.”

“I’ve read everything.”

“Go do an experiment.”

“I have four going. Time. They all need time.”

“Go hoover.”

“John, please. Be serious.”

“Sherlock.”

“Bored. So bored.”

“Do you want to play a game?”

“No.”

A long, suffering sigh.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Tell me what your tattoo is.”

“No.”

*

They were a week in now, and while things weren’t bad at work, they were starting to get a little rough at home. Sherlock was getting bored. Honestly, John was impressed he had made it this long without any serious issues. He was nervous as he made his way down Baker Street, but as he approached the familiar door, he could just hear the soft sounds of the violin through the window. He glanced up, and sure enough, he could just make out Sherlock’s silhouette behind the thin curtain that covered the window he usually played in front of. He watched his friend for a moment, the gentle sway of his body and the long pushes and pulls of the bow across the strings of his violin. He appeared to actually be playing something versus just abusing the instrument and any ears available to hear it. He turned back to the door and made his way up the stairs and to their flat. He walked in, watched the long line of his friends back for another moment, before heading to his room and getting supplies for a quick shower. It was allergy season on top of everything else, and he had been sneezed on by one too many patients to just not shower before getting ready for an evening in. 

The sound of Sherlock’s playing followed him up the stairs and throughout his shower. He couldn’t hear it over the sound of the spraying water, but it was still going when he came out and got dressed in his pajamas. Might as well be comfortable. He was humming as he made his way to the kitchen and got the supplies ready for tea. 

“Oh yeah, your skin and bones turn into something beautiful. Do you know, you know I love you so…” he started singing to himself as he poured hot water over two tea bags in mugs. Then he blinked and went over to watch his flatmate at the window. 

Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he swayed to the music he played as it filled the room with the smooth sound of Coldplay’s _Yellow_. John couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face. It appeared he had found the sheet music John had bought him. It had been an impulse buy as he had been out stocking up on things to keep them busy. It was just a selection of contemporary music adapted for the violin, and he didn’t think that Sherlock would ever actually play any of it, but there he was and John decided it was the best impulse buy he ever made. 

Coldplay’s _Yellow_ transitioned smoothly into John Legend’s _All of Me_ as John went back to the kitchen and prepared the two cups of tea. He brought them both out and placed one on the table by Sherlock’s chair before he sat on his own. He sipped his tea and watched his friend play. 

He loved times like this. Watching and listening to Sherlock play had somehow become a part of his life that he couldn’t imagine not having. It soothed a part of his soul that would always hurt. Chasing after Sherlock had cured his limp. Sherlock’s music settled his mind when it was all too much. 

He liked this song. He sang the lyrics in his head as the music played on. 

_Cards on the table, we’re both showing hearts  
Risking it all though it’s hard_

Sherlock opened his eyes and met John’s gaze. His face was open in a way it so rarely was, and John felt his stomach swoop in response. After a moment Sherlock closed his eyes again, and John convinced himself that it was nothing. Sherlock likely didn’t know any of the lyrics to these songs, and it was just coincidental timing. 

He finished his tea, set his mug down, and closed his eyes to better listen. 

*

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m bored.”

“I know.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“Entertain me.”

“Why don’t you check the website?”

“I did. Solved three cases this morning. Dull.”

“Check with Greg for any cold cases?”

“Who’s Greg?”

“Lestrade?”

“Oh. No. He wouldn’t answer my texts.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“What’s your tattoo of?”

“I don’t have a tattoo.”

“Yes you do.”

*

The bottle of scotch was less than half full and John and Sherlock were over half way drunk. At least, John knew he was. He was fairly sure Sherlock was. The soft pink flush to his cheeks and his easy smile definitely helped John reach that conclusion. 

It was 12 days in, and it had been a decent enough day. John had gone to work for a shift, came home to another delightful meal that Mrs. Hudson joined them for before she went back down to her flat, and then Sherlock pulled out the scotch and they had steadily made their way through the bottle since. He was warm and his muscles were sufficiently relaxed. They were sitting together on the couch and had just finished watching a news program when Sherlock leaned forward and closed the laptop. 

John watched his friend for a moment and didn’t bother to hide the soft smile that he felt on his face. He was too comfortable and just drunk enough to not care if he was caught. 

“Want to play a game?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the sudden silence. 

“Hm?”

“Game. Do you want to play one?”

“What kind of game?”

“Not a drinking game.”

John huffed a laugh. “Probably a good idea at this point. What game, then?”

“I don’t know. I thought you might know one. You’ve come up with all the other distractions.”

John thought for a moment. He didn’t feel like playing any board games. “Truth or dare?”

Sherlock nodded and leaned back onto the couch. “Who goes first?”

“You can since you wanted to play.”

“Ok. Truth or dare?”

“No, I meant you have to go first. I’ll ask you truth or dare. So. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” Sherlock decided. 

“Ok, truth. Um. What’s your favorite color?”

“Really? I say truth and you ask for my favorite color?”

“I don’t know your favorite color.”

“Fine. Blue, I suppose.”

“You don’t know?” John teased. 

“Never really thought about it. No one has ever asked before,” Sherlock replied, and something twisted in John’s chest at that. The thought that no one had ever cared enough to ask before hurt in an unexpected way. 

John cleared his throat. “Ok, blue. I like blue. Not my favorite, though.”

“No, your favorite is red,” Sherlock said slyly.

John knocked his knee against Sherlock’s leg beside his with a chuckle. “True. You’re turn.”

“Truth or dare?” Sherlock asked.

“Is it even worth going for ‘truth’? You probably know all the answers to whatever you would ask anyway.”

“Not all of them,” Sherlock replied with a one armed shrug as he took a sip from the amber liquid in his glass.

“Hm. Truth, then,” John answered. He was curious what Sherlock would want an answer for that he couldn’t or hadn’t already deduced.

“How old were you when you had your first girlfriend?” Sherlock asked.

John laughed. That wasn’t what he was expecting at all. “First girlfriend? Sixteen. Rebecca Stewart.” 

“She was your first kiss,” Sherlock deduced, and John shook his head. 

“Nope. She wasn’t.”

“Who was it then?”

“That’s another question. You only get one,” John evaded smoothly.

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“No, it’s my turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” 

“Who was your first...whatever?” John asked. If they were going to ask those kinds of personal questions, then there were plenty that John would like answers to.

Sherlock slanted his eyes at him. “My first ‘whatever’?”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Andrew Rutherford. First year at university.”

John nodded thoughtfully. Well, that answered that question at least. 

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“What? No, you need to play truth,” Sherlock cried out.

“No, I can play whatever I want.”

“But I need to know the answer.”

John couldn’t help the smirk on his face. “I know. That’s why I said ‘dare’.”

Sherlock leaned further back into the couch and pouted. John laughed at his antics. 

“Fine. I dare you to tell me the first person you kissed.”

“That’s not how that works,” John giggled as he took a sip from his glass. 

“Why not?”

“You can’t make a dare into a truth. It’s against the rules.”

“There’s no rule book. It’s just a game.”

“Pick a real dare.”

“Fine. I really dare you to tell me who your first kiss was.”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “You aren’t going to give me a real dare are you?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question, John.”

Another giggle. Maybe he was more than half drunk. “Yeah, I suppose we do.”

“So?”

John sighed. “First kiss was Declan Jacobs.”

Sherlock turned sharply to look at him. John raised his brows in silent question. Didn’t see that coming, did you?

“How old were you?”

“That’s another question.”

Sherlock held his gaze until John gave in.

“Fifteen. He was my best mate in school. Met when we were 12 and were inseparable. When we were 15 he started going out with this girl, Isabelle, and she was nice enough, I suppose, but I hated her. I kept telling everyone it was because she was taking my friend away and we never got to hang out anymore. Really I was just jealous. She ended up breaking up with him. Some stupid reason that kids break up over for, you know how it is. Anyway. We were in his room after and he was crying about losing the ‘love of his life’, and I just leaned over and kissed him.”

John went to take a sip of his scotch, but noticed that it was gone. He leaned over and placed the empty glass on the table in front of him.

“What did he do?” Sherlock asked quietly, and John turned to look at him before he leaned back into the couch again.

“Oh. Well. He stopped crying. Then he shoved me away and shouted at me.” John shrugged. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. It was a long time ago. Besides, it was a lesson learned. Be very sure the other person is interested before kissing them.”

They were silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. 

“John.”

“Sherlock?”

“I have a dare for you.”

“I just did my dare.”

“That was a truth. I have a real dare now.”

“You can’t just keep changing the game, you know.”

“Humor me.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered honestly. John smiled.

“What is it then?”

“I dare you to kiss me.”

John’s brows shot up and he looked at his friend. Then his friend’s empty glass. 

Sherlock watched him, saw where his eyes went, and rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not drunk, John. Well. Not much, anyway.” 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you dare me to kiss you?”

“I would think that’s fairly obvious, John.”

“Perhaps. Still would like an answer, though.”

Sherlock was silent, and John held his gaze for several moments. 

“I’ll tell you what. You think about the answer. If you come up with one and you still want me to kiss you tomorrow, then we can talk about it then.” 

With that he pushed himself up, just slightly wobbly on his feet, and picked up their empty glasses to take to the kitchen. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he called out as he stuck his head back out of the kitchen. His friend was still sitting on the couch. He seemed lost in thought. 

*

The next morning he woke with the edge of a headache behind his eyes. Thankfully he didn’t have a shift at the clinic and could use the day to recover. He wasn’t exactly a young man anymore. 

Alright. Caffeine, water, paracetamol, toast.

With a plan in mind, he forced himself to sit up. He glanced over at the table beside his bed and smiled. It appeared Sherlock had left him a gift. Paracetamol and water first, then. John grabbed the two tablets on the nightstand and knocked the back with the help of the glass of water. He finished the water as he pulled on some pajama bottoms and an old RAMC shirt before heading down stairs. 

He popped into the loo to relieve himself and brush his teeth, then made his way into the kitchen. The kettle was filled, so he flicked it on to boil the water for tea and tossed a couple slices of bread into the toaster. 

A few minutes later breakfast was done, and he brought out a plate and mug to the living area. He wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, scrolling through his phone, and deposited both items on the table beside him before grabbing his own back in the kitchen. He returned with his breakfast and sat in his chair.

They were both silent as they ate and drank their tea. 

“John.” 

“Yes?”

“I have an answer for you.”

John put his mug and plate down on the table beside him. Sherlock put down his own plate and mug and stood up. He took the two steps to stand in front of John’s chair and carefully placed his hands on the arms of John’s chair before he leaned down further into John’s personal space. 

John looked up at his friend. Took in all the features of that beautiful and beloved face. The dark brows, the sharp cheekbones, the perfect Cupid’s bow of his mouth, and those ever changing eyes. They were flashing silver at the moment. 

“I dare you to kiss me because I would very much like to kiss you.” 

John reached up a hand to touch his friend’s face. His fingers traced over his cheekbone, his jaw. His thumb traced the shape of his bottom lip. He felt Sherlock’s breathing pick up, felt his pulse as it began to race under his fingers. John met Sherlock’s gaze again, saw the truth of his words in his eyes, and gently pulled him down to his mouth. 

The brush of lips was soft. Chaste. A gentle pressure and release. It was perfect. This was what John wanted last night. Why he waited. He wanted to be sober if he was ever going to kiss Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to remember every detail.

John pulled back and opened his eyes. He didn’t let go of Sherlock. Not yet. He let his fingers catch in the dark curls at the back of Sherlock’s head. They were so much softer than he imagined. 

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I thought of another game we could play.”

“And what game is that?”

“Ever heard of Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

John laughed and Sherlock joined in a moment later. Then he straddled John in his chair, and the laughter died in John’s throat. Sherlock settled himself carefully in John’s lap and brought his hands up to his face. He leaned in and brought their mouths together, but this was nothing like the first kiss. It was demanding. It was the press of greedy lips, open mouths, hot tongues that slid against each other. Hands pulled and tugged in an effort to get the other closer. Breathing may be boring, but kissing was not, and breathing was required for kissing. John pulled away panting, his eyes locked on Sherlock. Kiss swollen lips and disheveled curls. He had never been more beautiful than he was right now. 

Sherlock leaned close and began kissing down John’s neck, then back up his jaw, the spot under his ear. He bit gently on his earlobe and John felt his entire body shudder in response. 

“If that game is too young for you, then we could play Doctor,” Sherlock purred in that deep voice, and honestly, it should be illegal to say things like that in his voice. 

John left out a sound that was half growl, half laugh. 

Sherlock climbed off his lap, then grabbed his hand and tugged him up, and John couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped him. 

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, brow arched, as he pulled John close to him. 

“I wasn’t expecting to play ‘Doctor’ when I was getting supplies for our quarantine.”

“Oh. That’s ok. I went shopping and got plenty of supplies.”

John’s brain short circuited for a moment. “What?” 

“Supplies. Condoms, lube. I checked your nightstand and got the brands you like.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. Sherlock was expecting this? Sherlock had wanted this to happen? Had even gone shopping for supplies?

“You bought condoms and lube, but can’t be bothered to buy milk?” John asked. 

“Condoms and lube are much more important than milk at this point in time, don’t you think?”

John stared at him a moment longer then laughed. 

“Yeah, fair enough.” 

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him again, then pulled back after a couple minutes. 

“Just think. There are so many fun ways to stop from being bored now,” Sherlock proclaimed, a twinkle in his eyes, and John smiled as Sherlock twined their fingers together and led them down the hall to his room. 

Who would have thought that the catalyst needed to finally make this thing between them bloom into something more would be forcing Sherlock to stay at home for days on end? John felt another giggle bubble up, and it was just impossible to keep them in. He was giddy in a way he hadn’t been in years. 

Sherlock brought John into the room, then closed the door. He stepped close behind John and wrapped his arms around him. His warm hands went under his shirt, fingers scraped gently over his skin, and he shivered as Sherlock’s breath tickled his ear. 

“I believe I’m in need of medical attention,” Sherlock quietly teased. 

John’s body shivered again. “I believe I am your doctor.”

*

Much later, they both stared up at the ceiling, limbs wrapped around one another as their bodies cooled and their hearts slowed down.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I can’t believe you have a tattoo of...” John quickly scrambled on top of Sherlock and stopped him with a kiss. 

“Don’t talk about the tattoo.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> I meant for this to be a much shorter fluff piece, but as usual, these two boys decided what I thought I wanted wasn’t good enough. Oh well. I hope you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are enthusiastically enjoyed and appreciated!


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